


Marks of Partnership

by threewalls



Series: Schirra [47]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: 707 OV, Bhujerba, Bladeplay, Community: areyougame, F/M, Food, Partnership, Post-Game(s), Scarification, Scars, Sharing a Meal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-15
Updated: 2009-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>Fran places a paper-wrapped bundle on the table, longer than a hand-span, shorter than a yard. She puts her hand on it when he reaches over to test the heft.</cite></p><p><cite>"A surprise," Fran says, smiling. "For later."</cite></p><p>Post-Game spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marks of Partnership

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: Balthier/Fran: Claiming or establishing ownership - Private

In Bhujerba, they sleep in a bed for the first time since Bahamut fell. They have money in Bhujerba, both from the spoils of Fran's hunts in the Ozmone while his ribs healed, and their lines of credit with moogle merchants, and they can afford the luxuries they prefer. They have baths and more than one change of clothes and meals that involve no effort beyond eating.

Balthier arrives at the restaurant before Fran, stoops to sit by the same table they had the night before. Fran loves moogle curries, though she has said she misses the meat.

The moogle maître d' stays to chat, pleased to see him twice in so many nights, when they haven't seen him or Fran for years. They never brought the questing party here, not Basch or the children, or her majesty who preferred to lodge and forage in her uncle's palace, not in nearly eighteen months of travelling. Even after Vaan embarrassed them all so, they still frequented the hume inns and eateries. Moogle cooking is bland to Dalmascan palates.

"Would you like to order drinks while you're waiting for your friend?"

"We'll have _gulab sharbat_ ," Fran says from behind.

Balthier raises an eyebrow. Yes, they overindulged last night, but they can afford it. Fran places a paper-wrapped bundle on the table, longer than a hand-span, shorter than a yard. She puts her hand on it when he reaches over to test the heft.

"A surprise," Fran says, smiling. "For later."

The _sharbat_ is a rose to suit its name, tart-sweet and an excellent accompaniment to moogle curries, which are more cream than spice. Tonight, they have a dish of yellow rice with almonds, pistachios and raisins, one of chunks of kupo nut in a gravy rich with ginger and cinnamon, and one of fried spinach with onions. The wait-moogle leaves a bottle of chilli oil, a concession to hume tastes, and Balthier is sparing.

They don't have dessert, but walk the scenic route back to the hostel.

The first night, their love-making was rough and quick, a proof that all their injuries had healed. Last night, they were giddy with moonshine and gave up getting out of their clothes and made a nest on the balcony so that they could watch the stars fall. Tonight, they take turns undressing, Fran unpicking the stays of his vest loop by loop and Balthier kneeling to unbuckle her greaves.

"Now, may I open it?"

Fran bought a dagger, an ordinary dagger, dull silver sheen to the blade.

"Do you remember?" she asks. Balthier can only nod.

Fran stands behind him, traces her fingernail along one of the grooved scars on his back. Balthier can't tell which marks derive from her nails and her passion, and which from the whip in another's lifetime. Fran has said she can. She is the better memory, and has his blanket permission to carve that mess into something finer. Fran's lips touch his back, and Balthier shivers.

Fran had asked for markings at his hands before, something more deliberate. But Balthier favoured guns and she arrows; the galley silverware lacked charm. Fran had said she'd pick the accessory if he'd choose the design. Ah, but that was before the palace heist and the princess, before Fran's sisters and his father, before the longest stretch of time he can recall in which they did not talk, did not touch, in all the years they have known each other.

Balthier turns in her arms, and leans up. Fran meets his mouth eagerly, her hands stroking the full line of his back. Fran has more scars than he: a line on the inside of her left arm from when a bow-string snapped, a mottled patch behind her shoulder from a bomb blast. He knows their feel more completely than he knows their stories. A seam down her thigh that he would have to bend to follow fully, from Bahamut's shrapnel.

Balthier didn't think what it meant when she followed him back onto Bahamut without question, on the strength of an order; what does a leading man do but lead? He had no time to think, not until she was cradled in his arms, mist-weak and yet amused. Of course, he'd get them out of there alive, somehow, no more talk of running on without her.

"Where do you want it?"

Fran took his right hand and moved it to the rise of her hip. "Start here." There the skin had no lines, no other scars. Her armour covered the space twice over, would cover any marks he made the way his shirts always covered his back. No one else would see it.

But they would know.


End file.
